I Dream Of Remus
by OneGrim
Summary: SLASH. Severus is stalking the Marauders. For strategic Slytherin reasons, naturally, and not because he is in the least interested in Remus, or jealous of Sirius.
1. Behind The Broomshed

Warning: This is a slash story. It's not very explicit, but it is full of slashy innuendo.  
  
Author's note: This is a sequel to Much Ado About Stalking. But don't worry if you haven't read that: you should be able to enjoy this story, anyway.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I DREAM OF REMUS  
  
CHAPTER I: BEHIND THE BROOMSHED  
  
  
Severus Snape fought the impulse to sneeze.  
  
This was easier for him than for most, since Severus was used to fighting his natural impulses. Especially the counter-productive ones, such as his need to be liked by his roommates: for, after all, wasn't it far better to inspire their fear and respect? Then there was his ridiculous wish to spend pleasant sunny days outside, when those were the very days when the Potions dungeon was invitingly empty. Or even that bizarre longing for a bottle of fancy herbal shampoo that had seized him on his last visit to Hogsmeade. (Fortunately, he'd managed to get hold of himself, and buy a copy of Most Potente Potions instead.)  
  
After all that, repressing a mere sneeze was child's play. It was necessary, too. If he gave in and sneezed, he would be discovered by the very people he was spying on; and then he would be known as an incompetent stalker, which would never do.  
  
So, Severus merely pinched his nostrils shut, and turned a disdainful (and watery) eye on the cause of his little problem: the dust.   
  
There was plenty of it about. Only one beam of light pierced the gloom of this forgotten section of the library, but even that single beam was full of glittering particles, dancing cheerfully through the musty air. Where it all came from was no mystery: the books on the shelf before him were were very old and very dry, and so utterly useless that no-one ever bothered to clean them. Or even to inquire whether they might be a fire hazard. He glanced along the shelves. The Compleat Dream Dictionary accounted for many of the boringly grey volumes, but he could see the pale Manual Of Lucid Dreaming off to the right, and, a little higher, the garish purple cover of Prophetic Dreams: The Laid-Back Seer's Guide To The Future.  
  
A sudden rustle from the other side of the bookcase reminded him that he wasn't there to browse through texts aimed at those with a lazy Inner Eye. So, stretching up on his toes, Severus applied his eye to the small gap on the right of Dream Dictionary, Volume XXVI: Chimpanzees - Cigars, and peered through.  
  
The scene hadn't changed all that much since his little Sneezing Problem had drawn him away. The table on the other side was still covered with books and bits of parchment; and, if he squinted and moved his head about a bit, he could still catch occasional glimpses of the three boys who bent their heads over it, scribbling furiously. Even the heads were the same as before: two dark, and one blonde. There was no nondescript brown head in sight.  
  
Severus felt an unreasonable twinge of disappointment, and was forced to remind himself that he wasn't there to stalk Remus Lupin, but to spy on the Gryffindor ring-leaders. This was a worthy goal: over the last few weeks, he'd discovered plenty of minor secrets. For example, he had learnt enough to connect the theft of Madame Pince's laundry to the enormous pink bra Malfoy had been sent for his birthday. He knew what insipid tune Potter and Evans referred to as "their song." He even understood why the Slytherin table wobbled so alarmingly on Tuesdays, and how Madame Pomfrey had been fooled into believing that an epidemic of leprosy was raging through Hogwarts.  
  
In all, however, his task had been far from easy. There had been times when those damn Gryffindors had seemed to disappear into thin air. There had been times when they had seemed to turn into a large pack of wild dogs (although Severus knew now that those "wild dogs" were simply Hagrid's new puppy, plus some hideous black stray the puppy had befriended last week.) And there had been times when all those endless cheerful Gryffindor conversations had driven Severus nearly insane. He particularly despised the inane chatter of that muscular idiot Sirius Black, with his undeserved gift for making Remus laugh. And Black had seemed extra attentive recently, tagging along with his friend morning, noon, and night.  
  
Watching those two together gave Severus goose-pimples.  
  
In a bad way, of course.  
  
At least they weren't together right now. Severus pressed his left cheek against the bookcase, and stared at Sirius Black with the intensity of a man inspecting a dubious Potions ingredient.  
  
From this position, most of Sirius Black was clearly visible. Severus watched as Sirius leaned back in his chair, his work done -- or, at least, abandoned -- and looked to his friends for amusement. The disappointed expression on his face suggested that both were still intent on their scribbling. So, rolling his eyes, Sirius gave up on them, and turned to his chewed-up quill. First, he examined it closely, and twirled it between his fingers a few times. Then, he tried balancing it on his nose. This kept him happy for about three seconds. When it finally fell, he snatched it out of the air and laid it along his upper lip, using a finger to keep it in place.  
  
"Jabes!" he called. "Jabes, do you think I should grow a boustache?"  
  
"Sure, Sirius, " James muttered distractedly, somewhere off to the left. "Anything that covers part of your face can only help."  
  
"Oh, is that why you wear glasses, then?" Sirius retorted quickly, but without the rancor he reserved for his actual enemies. He tossed the quill away and leaned towards his friend, disappearing from Severus' narrow field of view.  
  
"You know, James, there's only two Z's in 'Zenoby the Bizarre'," his voice pointed out helpfully.  
  
"Do you mind?" James' hand shoved him back into his chair. "Why are you so fidgety, anyway?"  
  
"The sun will be setting soon," Sirius replied meaningfully, "and the moon will be rising." He emphasized his vacuous statement by waving his hand vaguely to the left; to the West, Severus supposed.  
  
"Yes," Peter joined the conversation, "we know."  
  
"Of course we do," James agreed. "Really, Sirius," his voice continued, in very superior tones, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you were nervous about tonight's big adventure."  
  
Sirius sat up at that, and turned towards James in indignation. "I am not nervous," he scoffed. "I just don't want to keep Remus waiting, is all."  
  
"Since when have you been so considerate?" James wanted to know. "I know you're eager to play your doggy games with him, but this is ridiculous."  
  
Behind the bookshelf, Severus felt his head spin at James' words. Knowing that Black was meeting Remus somewhere was bad enough, but 'doggy games'? He tried not to think about it too much, but his imagination betrayed him, sending up several vivid scenes.   
  
"What was that?" he heard Peter exclaim, and the scenes, thankfully, dissolved.  
  
"An attempt at a joke, I think, Peter," Sirius explained helpfully. "James tries hard."  
  
"No, I meant the noise," Peter explained. "I heard a sort of thud, from behind all those shelves."  
  
Severus ducked down as Sirius turned to stare directly at his hiding place. This gave him an opportunity to look down at the ground, and notice the pile of books he'd knocked over in his agitation. He cursed his disobedient, flailing foot. Not only was he risking discovery, but he'd managed to distract the Gryffindors away from their most interesting topic.  
  
"Was it a mouse, perhaps?" Sirius' voice carried thought the bookshelf.  
  
"Mice don't thud," Peter sounded quite adamant.  
  
"You're the expert," James replied. "Perhaps it was Sirius' nervous, thudding heart."  
  
"James, I know it's difficult for you, but do try to be logical," Sirius suggested. "Why would I be nervous? Tonight's little moonlit escapade is nothing new for me."  
  
"He's right, James!" Peter announced, after a moment's consideration. "Still," he continued, "I think Remus is a bit worried. At least about going behind the shed. It's so close to the school."  
  
The shed? Severus held his breath. Black was meeting Remus behind the BROOMSHED? That was... unfair. Remus, in his innocence, would surely miss the implications. The broomshed! It wasn't even as if Sirius could be trusted to act like a gentleman. How could Potter and Pettigrew be fine with that?  
  
Perhaps... perhaps they were all making this up just to taunt him? Oh, if he could only get a clear view of all their faces...   
  
Severus just had to enlarge his field of view.  
  
Moving with care, he took hold of a book -- Volume XXVI -- and pulled gently. It wouldn't move. He tugged harder, but this didn't work either, so, gnashing his teeth with impatience, he braced one foot against the shelf and really applied himself to the task of pulling. Something did move, then. Actually, the whole row of Volumes shifted toward him slightly. Had they been glued together by some mysterious chemical process? Severus eyed them suspiciously, and considered abandoning his task.  
  
"...even Remus agrees it'll be fun..."  
  
The casual words drifted across the gap, and he felt strength flow into his shoulders. He yanked at the book in his hand -- and it came out, at last. Then, gazing up in triumph, he saw its brothers lean out towards him, and the air was suddenly full of grey covers, greying pages, and swirling dust as thick as Christmas snow. Something hit his left cheek; then his right ear; then several parts at once. Severus stumbled, and tried to draw his wand: but, then, something purple hit him on the nose, and the world enfolded him, like the closing pages of a very heavy encyclopedia.  
  
  
  
"Snape? Snape? Are you dead, Snape?"  
  
Severus winced. Someone was slapping his cheek, and he couldn't decide what was more jarring: the sharp stings of pain, or that annoying voice.  
  
"Go away, Avery," he mumbled.  
  
"He's coming to!" a second voice rumbled. "You can stop slapping him, now."  
  
"Oh, it's no trouble," Avery asserted, slapping away.  
  
Severus' mind felt dull enough to get sorted into Hufflepuff, and so it took him a few seconds to mentally locate his left hand and raise it up to his face, shielding his cheek from further abuse. This accomplished, he opened his eyes.  
  
He saw bookshelves. Layers of bookshelves, weaving together, and then apart, in an intricate dance. He couldn't see them all that clearly: there was something dark and fuzzy right in front... Severus blinked, and the fuzziness resolved itself into two robed figures. Avery, obviously, and also a largeish shape vaguely reminiscent of Slytherin Quidditch Captain, Rumble. That was odd. He didn't think he'd ever seen either Avery or Rumble in a library before. "Where... what's going on?" he asked.  
  
"I think you've got a concussion," Rumble informed him. "Some books fell on you. Dangerous things, books..."  
  
"Potter came looking for us and told us where you were," Avery jumped in. "It was dead suspicious. I deduce that he must have cast some kind of Book Avalanche curse on you. Am I right?"  
  
"I'm not sure." Noticing that the bookshelves had stopped dancing, Severus decided to sit up. The room swayed a little as he did so, but, really, it was no worse than being in a boat out on the Lake. Pleased with his efforts, he lowered his lids, and tried to recall if his roommate's deductions were, for once, correct.  
  
His eyes snapped wide open before Avery could even think of slapping him again. "The broomshed!" he gasped.  
  
"No, not the broomshed" Rumble said brightly, as if speaking to a backward child. "We're in the library! Avery," he added, out of the corner of his mouth, "I think your roommate's hallucinating."  
  
"Dreaming, more like," Avery replied. "He likes it out by the broomshed -- I think it's where he got his first shag..."  
  
"Really?" Rumble asked, giving Severus a man-of-the world wink. "Me too!"  
  
"Yes, you, and half of the school's more open-minded population," Severus muttered, wincing at the possible implications of this thought. "Now, please help me stand up. I have to get to the broomshed. Sirius Black is going there, and..."  
  
"Sirius Black, hmm?" Rumble considered this. "He's not too bad -- if you go in for Gryffindor men..."  
  
"Oh, come on," Avery let out a high-pitched giggle. "If I know one thing, it's that Severus Snape would never get it on with Sirius Black!"  
  
"Ah, right, of course I wouldn't," Severus agreed quickly. "It's just that I heard Black say that... er," he continued, thinking fast, "he and his friends are planning to steal some brooms there, tonight."  
  
Rumble laughed, a sound traumatizingly reminiscent of the clatter of a ton of falling books. "On the night of the full moon? Not bloody likely! There's bound to be people out there, tonight. This is just your concussion speaking," he announced, grabbing Severus firmly by the elbow. "Come on, we'll walk you to the Hospital Wing."  
  
"Leave me alone," Severus snapped, feebly attempting to free his elbow. "Can't you see I'm fine? You've got concussion on the brain!"  
  
"Damn right I do," Rumble acknowledged cheerfully. "That's how I know what I'm talking about. Oh, yes, this head has stopped many a Bludger, in its time," he explained, boxing his own ear. "But don't worry," he said with a smile, "Madame P. will fix you right up."  
  
"But..." Severus protested, even as Avery's hands clamped down on his other elbow. And, before he could think of a convincing argument, his two unwelcome helpers were propelling him firmly towards the library door. Well, this was a step in the right direction, at least. He would play along, he decided, and make a break for it at a more convenient time.  
  
He gave each of the other two boys a grateful smile. Avery responded with a suspicious glare. Rumble smiled back, and started chatting amicably.  
  
"Ah, the broomshed, though," he shook his head with a sigh. "What a place... I often go down there after Quidditch practice, you know. Just last week, I met that blonde Ravenclaw Chaser there. Now, that guy really knows how to ride a broom, if you know what I mean..."  
  
Severus nodded vaguely, and listened to this monologue, feeling increasingly nauseated. He had seem the area behind the broomshed often enough, and he could just picture it now: Sirius Black, and his leering suggestions, and Remus, wide-eyed eyed with incomprehension...  
  
Forget goose-bumps; it gave him the shivers.  
  
What he would have given, just a fortnight ago, to be in Black's place! He was completely over Remus Lupin now, of course, but still he resented Black this opportunity. For who knew what that over-muscled git, with all his cheap charm, might be able to accomplish? Severus thought of 'doggy games' and broom rides, and shuddered, his stomach lurching. He tried to focus on his surroundings, instead, but the corridor he now walked in was very twisty: the walls seemed to be twisting before his very eyes. It made his head spin, in time with his stomach. Round and round it went, like a self-stirring cauldron, thoughts of Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin, and broomsheds and broom-rides mixing together like obscure Potions ingredients.  
  
Severus let himself get stirred in, and felt his body fall.  
  
  
  
He struggled with his weakness, and tried to drag himself out into reality. Occasionally, a fragment would reach him: a few slaps, the crisp sheets of an Infirmary bed, Madame Pomfrey's calm-but-concerned voice discussing sleeping draughts. At one point, he dimly realized that he was drinking something. It must have been the Remus/Sirius potion, for, when he next opened his eyes, he saw the back of the broomshed, right there before him, as if in a photograph.  
  
Severus studied the picture. He knew what was coming, and so felt no sense of shock when a breeze stirred the grass, and Remus Lupin stepped into view.  
  
"So," he announced, looking over his shoulder, "we're behind the broomshed now. What a lovely spot," he commented, folding his arms and eyeing the peeling paint.  
  
"Hey, don't knock this place," Sirius Black replied, joining him. "I've had some great times out here," he sighed, and looked down at the trampled grass.  
  
"Really?" Remus leaned back against the shed wall. "Well, since you're the expert, what do you suggest we do?"  
  
"Well, seeing what kind of place this is," Sirius announced, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, "I thought that you might be interested in an, er, broom ride."  
  
Remus frowned. "I'm not sure about this, Sirius," he replied. "You know I don't normally do that sort of thing."  
  
"Well, you should," Sirius grinned, and leaned into the wall, planting his elbow by his friend's shoulder. "It's really fun."  
  
"I'm not very experienced, you know..." Remus shrugged, his shoulders flaking the weather-worn paint.  
  
"It's pretty easy." Sirius moved in closer, eyes smiling down at Remus through untidy black hair.  
  
"And, anyway," Remus continued, "my broom isn't up to much."  
  
"Let me have a look at it," Sirius offered, holding out his free hand so that it hovered somewhat close to the other boy's waist. "I'm good with brooms."  
  
In answer, Remus peeled himself away from the wall and stepped under Sirius' arm, weaving around the side of the shed. He was back a few seconds later, carrying his worn Swooper-Sweeper.  
  
Sirius took the broom from his outstretched hand and gave it a casual glance. "Phew, you're right," he announced, returning it. "We'd better forget about using this old thing. Perhaps," he suggested slyly, his eyebrows working overtime, "you should consider riding MY broom."  
  
"Oh, I couldn't do that: what would YOU do?" Remus asked.   
  
"Don't worry about me," Sirius laughed, "I'll think of something."  
  
"Of course," Remus mused, "I could ride James'. I hear it's better, anyway."  
  
"What do you mean, James' broom is better?" Sirius asked sharply.  
  
"He says it's got a greater range," Remus explained.  
  
"Hah!" Sirius exclaimed. "As if anyone cared about that! Mine's far more maneuverable in a tight spot," he announced triumphantly.  
  
Remus just gave him a very, very blank look.  
  
"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" Sirius sighed. "Oh, never mind the brooms, then. Perhaps we could just sit down here and, er, chat." Without waiting for a reply, he sank down, his back against the wall, and smiled up at his friend.  
  
Remus stepped over his outstretched legs to place his broom against a tree, and then returned and sat down at his left. "Well?" he asked, drawing his knees up to his chest.  
  
"Er..." Sirius gave him a long, sidelong glance. "Hey, you've got some paint in your hair," he announced, and moved closer, his hand reaching towards his friend's face.  
  
"Where?" Remus asked, running his hands all over his head. "Is it gone now?"  
  
"I suppose so," Sirius shrugged, and moved his hand back to tug at his scarf. "Warm evening, isn't it?" he asked suddenly. "Perhaps we should get rid of some of these clothes..."  
  
"Do you really find it so warm?" Remus frowned, watching his friend pull off his scarf. "I was just thinking about how chilly it was."  
  
"Oh, you're right!" Sirius nodded furiously. "In fact, I'm freezing," he confessed. With great speed, he rewrapped the scarf tighter and moved right up to Remus. "Brr," he shivered, slipping one arm around the other boy's back.  
  
Remus' didn't seem to notice: he had turned his attention to his messy hair, and was now trying to smooth it down.  
  
"I've got a comb," Sirius suggested. "It's in my pocket, if you'd like to reach for it." With his free arm, he gestured toward his left trouser pocket, wedged tight against his friend's hip.  
  
"A comb? Really?" Remus looked down for a few seconds. "And here I was thinking that you were just happy to see me."  
  
"Huh?" Sirius glared at him, quickly heaping robes all over his lap. "What are... you never say stuff like that!" he sputtered.  
  
"I'm learning fast," Remus replied brightly, wrapping his hands around his knees. "You have to admit it was rather in line with all your sexy broom ride innuendoes."  
  
"No it wasn't! The very implication! As if I would ever try to trick you like that, like I was some cheap pervert!" Sirius exclaimed. "Wait a moment," he paused, eyes widening. "You followed my broom ride lines?"  
  
"Oh, yes. They were hilarious!" Remus buried his face in his knees, and laughed.  
  
Sirius stared, mouth hanging open. "Fine, laugh at me," he said at last. "See if I care." He started to pull away, his arm sliding across his friend's shaking shoulders.  
  
At that, Remus sat up quickly, twisting to catch hold of Sirius' retreating hand. "Don't go," he pleaded.  
  
Sirius stopped and turned to him. "You don't want me to move?" he asked.  
  
"No," Remus shook his head solemnly. "After all," he continued, his eyes very wide, "it's so cold, we might both die of exposure..."  
  
Sirius growled, and tugged at his captive arm. "Let me go," he ordered. "Let me go, or I'll have to chew my own arm off."  
  
But Remus held on. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'll stop now. Please... please don't go, Sirius," he repeated.  
  
Sirius glanced at him again, and saw neither suppressed laughter nor mock innocence. "Fine," he said slowly, and sat back down.  
  
Remus smiled as his friend's arm returned to its natural position around his shoulders. "Now," he said, "I believe we were talking about broom rides..."  
  
  
  
Severus woke suddenly, to find himself in an infirmary bed. His head hurt, he was damp with sweat, and cold, and all tangled up in strange sheets -- but at least the dream was over. That horrible, lying dream. It had to be a lie, because surely Remus had enough sense not to be won over by such cheap buffoonery. No, assuredly, a deep, intellectual engagement would be the way to his heart.  
  
Wouldn't it?   
  
Severus looked up at a nearby window, and saw the soft grey light that signalled dawn.  
  
It was too late to put a stop to things, anyway.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Acknowledgement: This story would never have been completed without the encouragement of my wonderful beta-reader CLS, who saw something worthwhile in the terrible first draft.  
  
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
Suggestion: Review! Reviews inspire me to write more.


	2. A Date With Fate

Warning: This is a slash story. It's not very explicit, but it is full of slashy innuendo.  
  
Author's note: I can't believe I haven't posted this here yet! Anyway, this is a sequel to Much Ado About Stalking. If you haven't read that, then you should. I mean, you should probably know that Severus and Sirius had a wild one-night-stand during that fic.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I DREAM OF REMUS  
  
CHAPTER II: A DATE WITH FATE  
  
  
Severus stared out of the infirmary window gloomily, and tried to chase all thoughts of broomsheds and broom-rides from his mind. It was a difficult task. The herb garden outside looked hazy and unreal in the dawn light, while the scene he had just witnessed had been so vivid and lifelike that some stupid part of him could not accept that it had been an ordinary dream.  
  
He'd never had a dream like that before, so dramatic, so full of sharp dialogue; no, his sleeping mind preferred to surprise him with dry allegories based on his Potions work. Most often, he would find himself pounding herbs in a mortar with a very large pestle, and wake invigorated and oddly satisfied. At other times, a set of scales would appear before him, and he would spend hours weighing ingredients against each other and fighting to keep the scales balanced. Those nights left him rather drained, but never as depressed as he felt right now.  
  
But why should the broomshed dream bother him so? Certainly, watching Sirius Black triumph where he himself had failed was not one of his favourite activities, but that disgusting sight had never made him feel so blank and unhappy before. Usually, it filled him with a powerful desire to fetch his large pestle and grind Black into a fine powder. He'd even thought of twelve uses for Black powder, from Dementor cosmetic to Troll suppository, but even this imaginative list failed to cheer him now.  
  
Well, perhaps it was just the concussion, made worse by his current inhospitable surroundings. Severus glanced around the ward. It was a hideous room, large and anonymous, framed by dull green walls and furnished with row upon row of empty hospital beds. Empty like... oh, what was the point of similes. Reality was depressing enough. Even Madame Pomfrey, visible off at the other end of the room, looked vaguely sinister as she bent over the only other occupied bed.  
  
"Does it still hurt?" she was asking.   
  
It was an apt question, made even more apt by her business-like voice; because, after all, wasn't pain the very business of life? Severus' head, for one, was definitely aching. He seemed to be sinking into a sort of grey mist -- until a familiar voice came out of nowhere, and cut across all the mist and the ache.  
  
"No, it's fine now," Remus replied, sounding quite weak but undeniably present.  
  
"Right," Madame Pomfrey announced briskly "I'll fetch the pain medicine then, shall I? Really, child," she continued, exasperated, "how am I supposed to help you if you won't tell me the truth?"  
  
A moment later, she was walking past Severus' bed, muttering something about "Gryffindor courage, Gryffindor stupidity." His headache forgotten, he leapt up after her, and followed her into a nearby storage room.  
  
"What's wrong with Re... with Lupin?" he asked the moment was past the door.  
  
Madame Pomfrey turned around, a dusty round bottle in her hand. "Good morning, Mr Snape," she replied. "How's your concussion? You look feverish," she said accusingly, laying a hand on his forehead.  
  
Severus gave her his darkest stare. "I am just fine. What's wrong with Lupin?"   
  
"No fever," Madame Pomfrey replied. "Now give me your hand and let me feel your pulse."  
  
"Do you know how Lupin got injured?" Severus persisted. "Because I am certain -- certain -- that Black had something to do with it."  
  
"Your pulse is a bit high," Madame Pomfrey commented, "and Mr Lupin's illness is none of your business. Go back to bed, Mr Snape," she finished, returning to her medicines.  
  
But Severus would not be dismissed so easily. "Well, when did Black bring him in?" he asked desperately. "At night? Or this morning?"  
  
Two bottles clinked together, and Madame Pomfrey spun back towards him. "This morning?" she laughed feebly. "What gave you that idea? Mr Snape, I must assure you that Mr Lupin has been under my care since before sunset."  
  
"Since before sunset? Really? He's been sick that long?" Severus fought the urge to smile. "That's... that's very sad," he finished.  
  
Madame Pomfrey regarded him suspiciously. "Back to bed, Mr. Snape!" she ordered. "Your concussion seems worse than I thought."  
  
This time, Severus was happy to obey her. He all but skipped out into the ward, which, he now realized, was a well-organized, clean and cheerful place. Even the green paint on the walls seemed much brighter; the sun must have risen quite a bit during his brief absence. He glanced at the window to confirm this hypothesis, and was immediately distracted by a dark shape looming against the sky. It might have been a tree, except that it rapidly drew out of sight beneath the window-sill. Trees seldom did that.  
  
Curious, Severus walked over to the window and threw it open. At first, he saw nothing unusual, but then the bushes below him rustled, and Sirius Black's face peered out fetchingly from among the branches, disarming grin at the ready.  
  
Severus stared down, scowling, and watched Sirius' grin fade, and his eyes flicker uneasily. He would have rejoiced at that, if the sense of unease hadn't been so completely mutual. Something urged him to embarrass Black by mentioning the last time he had seen him down on his knees, but, then, what memory might that idiot retaliate with: something about the hot wax, perhaps, or even the quill? No, it really was best not to dwell on these things too deeply. Action was called for.  
  
"What are YOU doing here?" Severus jumped as he realized they'd both asked the same question at the exact same time, in much the same tone of voice. Well, at least he was the only one with a good excuse.   
  
"I," he announced smugly, "have a concussion. And, what about you, Black?" he asked with mock concern. "Another attack of leprosy?"  
  
"No, I'm out for my morning constitutional," Sirius replied, "which always takes me right past the hospital wing and always, always involves the transportation of fruit." Here, he lifted up his right hand, dangling a fat bunch of purple grapes.  
  
"Grapes? For me?" Severus smirked. "You must be getting quite desperate: did last night not go as planned?" he queried, ever solicitous.   
  
"What are you talking about, Snape?" Sirius asked, his eyes narrowed.  
  
"Nothing," Severus smiled down at him.  
  
"Then shut up," Sirius suggested. "And move over. I'm climbing in."  
  
"Oooh, you're so masterful, Black," Severus sighed. "Here, I'll help you come in; hey, I'll even call Madame Pomfrey. She'd love to see you."  
  
"She's there?" Sirius frowned, pausing with his hand inches from the window-sill.  
  
"Of course," Severus nodded, and glanced back over his shoulder. "She's hovering over your friend right now. He looks very sick," he continued cheerfully. "Not likely to get up for days and days, I'd say. Oh, don't try to peer in, she'll see you... What's that, Madame Pomfrey?" he yelled suddenly, half-turning into the room. "Oh, nothing, I'm just talking to a friend..."  
  
"Damn," Sirius swore. "I'd better get away. Here," he addressed Severus abruptly, "could you give Remus these grapes? If you poison them, I'll... I'll tell everyone about your perverted taste in underwear."  
  
"Such a creative threat." Severus took the grapes, and weighed them in his hand. "Is that the best a Gryffindor can do?"  
  
But Sirius was already gone, the bushes swaying in his wake.  
  
Severus closed the window, and leaned against it, facing the empty ward. Empty, that is, except for that one far-off bed. Tossing the fruit up and down in one hand -- and losing a few grapes in the process -- he strode off towards it.  
  
Once by the bed, he paused. Remus' eyes were closed, and he looked a bit strange. Older, perhaps: his face was a bit drawn. Or perhaps younger: only very young children ever looked that tired. Severus sighed, and tried to summon up all his malice, all of his sense of undeserved rejection.  
  
"Good morning, Remus," he said, roughly and loudly.  
  
Remus' eyes blinked open. "Morning, Severus," he mumbled with unenthusiastic politeness. "What brings you here?"  
  
"Concussion," Severus explained, smugly.  
  
"Oh? Whose?" Remus whispered, frowning a little, and then deliberately relaxing his forehead as if the frown had pained him.  
  
"Mine," Severus replied, and squinted in an attempt to manufacture an appropriate painful grimace. He didn't really think it had worked -- certainly not half as well as Remus' subtle little gesture -- so he settled for collapsing into a nearby chair with the clatter of heavy falling limbs.  
  
Remus looked concerned for a moment, but was soon forced to repeat his deliberate relaxation trick in what must have been a very courageous attempt to fight a truly terrible headache. "I'm sorry," he muttered.  
  
"I'm fine," Severus reassured him. "And... " he continued, unwillingly, "I'm the sorry one. I've been a... a prat." He plonked the grapes down on the bedside table. "Peace-offering," he offered, noticing that Remus' tired, terse speaking style was, apparently, as contagious as it was attractive.  
  
"Thanks," Remus gave him a little smile, and sat up slightly. "I'm sorry, too," he explained. "I've been unfair. I know you had Sirius' enthusiastic cooperation, and if you wanted to sleep with him -- well, I can't really blame you for that, can I?"  
  
Severus frowned at that. "Yes you can," he said abruptly. "Sleeping with Black was a big mistake," he elaborated, waving his hands around for emphasis, "a mistake no-one else should ever make."  
  
Remus just stared at him, blinking very slowly.   
  
"Trust me on this," Severus continued. "You don't want to go there. He's... er... he behaves as if... he tries to... he's crap, just trust me!" he concluded.  
  
"I'm sorry," Remus said with care, "that you had such a bad experience." These long sentences seemed to take a lot out of him, and he sank back down.  
  
Severus watched the tired face, pale even against the white pillows. "You should rest now," he found himself suggesting. Well, it was a good idea; resting would give Remus a chance to dwell on warning he had just delivered. So, he left him to it.  
  
As he walked back to his own bed, he scoured his mind for some examples of Black's sexual inadequacy that could be used to strengthen the message on some future occasion. It was a very difficult task, but everything seemed possible in his current optimistic mood. The mere thought of that canceled broomshed date filled him with a deep, singing joy.  
  
His high lasted for hours. It was still there when he was discharged from the infirmary, and it stayed with him all the way through Charms, and even through History Of Magic. The Slytherins noticed it at lunch: Rumble announced that it was a common symptom of concussion, and Avery claimed that it was the warm after-glow of a successful anti-Gryffindor curse. Much as he hated to, Severus had to give Avery partial credit for his latest deduction, for he did feel as if he had cursed Sirius Black, just a little. It was a very good feeling.  
  
And then came Potions.  
  
The Potions bench he shared with Avery was right in front of the main Gryffindor bench. This was no accident; Potions classes were an eavesdropper's paradise. Talking to one's partner was, after all, a necessity, and accidents were so common that Professor Toedlicher Schnapps was usually far too busy to notice how little the conversations had to do with the current project.  
  
On that day, explosions were particularly frequent, permitting Black and Pettigrew to be particularly talkative. Severus was thus forced to listen to a a long description of some game Black had played with Hagrid's new puppy. He was just about to yawn for the third or fourth time when he heard Black say:  
  
"And after that, I pulled several wine bottles out of Hagrid's stash, and ran. So, you see, it's all ready for tonight."  
  
"Do you think it's really necessary?" Peter asked uncertainly. "The wine, the flowers, the chocolates? Making sure the moss in the clearing is springy?"  
  
"It can't hurt, can it?" Sirius replied. "I've also enchanted the shrubbery to sing like a nightingale. In all, it should be quite a date."  
  
At the word "date", Severus' heart sank along with the frog liver he had just dropped into his potion. He should have known that Black would not give up easily! Still, he listened.  
  
"You're being very nice about this," Peter was saying, wonder in his voice. "Really going out of your way, I mean."  
  
"Ah," Sirius gave an embarrassed laugh. "I'm just trying to treat a friend right. That's what adults do, don't they?" he asked vaguely. "I'm trying to act like an adult these days."  
  
"Oh, I see." Peter stated. "Is that why you're trying to grow a mustache?"  
  
Even though his emotions were otherwise occupied, Severus' curiosity would not let him ignore that. He turned back, and looked Sirius Black straight in the face. And stared.  
  
Sirius quickly noticed his grim expression. "What are you staring at, Snape?" he asked. "Is it my mustache?" One of his hands rose up uncertainly to cover his top lip. "Well, if you don't like it, that's your problem," he announced feebly. "Go away."  
  
Severus did turn back to his cauldron then, not because he liked obeying Sirius in any context that did not involve hot wax, but because the mustache, pathetic as it was, had given him hope. He knew that, if he really concentrated, he could convince himself that no sensible person could fall for the sickeningly romantic advances of a man with such pathetic facial hair. And then everything would be all right.  
  
He was just about to begin deluding himself when his potion exploded with a burst of red light. This could only mean one thing: some moron had added in an unnecessary frog liver, and so Severus was forced to spend the rest of the afternoon berating Avery for this amateurish mistake. This made Avery rather sulky, and poor company at dinner.  
  
"Severus, can I have your Necronomicon when you're dead?" he asked innocently over the lamb chops. "I don't know if you heard, but Trelawney said today that you should be kicking the bucket any time now."  
  
Severus just grunted. He'd been trying to concentrate on maintaining his new, cheerful attitude. It was a delicate task, a sort of meditation centered on Sirius' daft mustache, and the interruption was most unwelcome.  
  
Rumble patted him on the arm. "Don't worry, Severus," he said, completely misinterpreting Severus' grunt. "I don't think Professor Trelawney's predictions are completely accurate. After all, didn't she tell Avery that his life would be full of pain?"  
  
"Oh, yes," Avery nodded. "She didn't say the pain would be my own, though, did she? Professor Trelawney's all right."  
  
The thought of pain reminded Severus of Remus Lupin, and pushed the mustache right out of his mind. He cursed inwardly, and then outwardly. "Bollocks!" he snarled at Avery. "Trelawney is an old fraud. Her whole subject is a steaming pile of dragon dung."  
  
"Oh really?" Avery asked. "Is that why you were reading up on it last night? Don't forget," he added, "that we were there. We found you under a pile of dream dictionaries."  
  
"Dream dictionaries?" Severus asked stupidly, while his mind made lightning-quick logical leaps. His dream, so vivid, so unusual -- his concussion -- the dream-related books that had caused it. No, not books -- he could clearly remember being knocked out by one specific book, the purple-covered Prophetic Dreams.  
  
Prophetic Dreams. Oh, no. Severus slumped back in his chair, his mind's fragile balance shattered. One could not, after all, fight Fate. One could, of course, try. One could stand up right now, run towards the Gryffindor table, and club Sirius Black over the head with a leg of mutton. One could then run out and set fire to the broomshed, and then to every other shed within flying distance. Finally, one could kidnap Remus Lupin and hide him in a small sealed box in one's closet. But, even then, Fate would assuredly still find a way, and, meanwhile, one would be known as a mad, closet-obsessed pyromaniac.  
  
Severus had no wish to cultivate that particular public image. He wanted to keep his dignity; at that moment, he felt as if dignity was the only thing he had left in the world. And, so, he pulled himself together, finished his dinner, and spent the rest of the evening reading. Or, more precisely, he distractedly ate his napkin, and then went off to the Slytherin Common Room to stare into an open book and wonder why the printed letters looked so lonely. He was quite relieved when the clock struck eleven, and he could finally climb into bed, hoping for a peaceful, dreamless night.  
  
But sleep, dreamless or not, was long in coming. Frantic thoughts raced through his too-active mind; not thoughts of dream-dates and wine and nightingales -- he had enough self-control to keep those out, at least -- but memories of his own past seduction attempts, and of Sirius Black, who rode a mean broom, and who had always beaten him at Quidditch. Who had always beaten him at most things. It was so unfair... Self-pity crept into his soul, and he curled himself around it in his lonely bed.  
  
He must have drifted off, eventually, for he suddenly discovered that the bed had dissolved around him, leaving only a patch of soft moss. He felt its springiness, and looked up at the scene before him. There was a hedge there, its leaves turned heavy and grey by the moonlight's peculiar alchemy. The hedge was singing an aria, and, beneath it, two boys sat side by side, listening. In the light, they seemed to be made of grey metal, two silent, motionless statues of silver, lead, and pewter.  
  
At last, the song ended. One of the boys, the one with silvery hair, bent down slightly to pick up a dark bottle. As he lifted it to his mouth, moon-beams slid through it until the liquid inside glowed a deep, ruby red; and a red shadow bathed his face as he drank, so that he looked like a statue no more, but like the living Remus Lupin.  
  
"Thanks, Sirius," Remus said at last, as he lowered the bottle. "That song was lovely, and this wine... it's very good."  
  
"Yes. It's Chateau Lafite," Sirius nodded. "I'm very surprised that Hagrid had some, actually. Another chocolate, Remus?" he added, picking up an open box.  
  
"Well, perhaps just one more," Remus reached over, and popped a truffle into his mouth.  
  
Sirius watched him eat it, and his eyes glinted with mischief. He reached into the box, pulled out a truffle of his own, and immediately started licking it in a very suggestive way. His tongue moved all around it as he sent Remus a smoldering look. "Mmm," he murmured, shoving the chocolate into his mouth, accompanied by three fingers. "I just love that."  
  
Remus' face was blank as watched the little performance. "You might choke, you know," he said at last.  
  
"Oh, I never choke," Sirius replied with a wink. When Remus failed to wink back, he sighed with exasperation and picked up his friend's hand.  
  
"Sirius," Remus began, watching as Sirius raised the hand up to his lips, tickling the palm with his mustache. "Sirius, what are you doing?"  
  
"What, you don't like it?" Sirius asked, looking over at him. "You know, Remus," he said suavely, "the moonlight really brings out your eyes."  
  
"You know, Sirius," Remus replied, withdrawing his hand, "that kind of seductive rubbish doesn't do all that much for me."  
  
"Well, what kind of seductive rubbish does?"  
  
"Perhaps something that doesn't involve the moonlight?" Remus suggested.  
  
"Ah. Sorry. Well then," Sirius grinned, "has anyone ever told you that you're really cute when you're angsty?"  
  
"What?" Remus blinked a few times. "Er, no. And I hope that you don't plan to make a habit of it. It's a little disturbing."  
  
"Fine, fine." Sirius sighed, and ran his hands through his hair. "I guess I'll have to forget all my usual seductive rubbish, then." He looked away for a few seconds, before turning back towards Remus quite abruptly. "No, wait a moment!" he exclaimed. "It's not rubbish at all, actually! Okay, perhaps it's a little contrived, or cliche, but so what? Cliches are often true. That's what makes them cliches."  
  
"Yes, I suppose," Remus murmured. "But when you talk in cliches, you are in danger of sounding like a character from a cheap novel."  
  
"How would you know?" Sirius asked. "Have you ever read a cheap novel?"  
  
"Not all the way through," Remus shrugged. "But I've seen them around. Professor Toedlicher-Schnapps reads them during detention. The covers," he added with a smirk, "often feature seductive men with mustaches."  
  
"Oh, right. She likes German Cavalry bodice-rippers," Sirius murmured, fingering his own mustache nervously. "You know, I do believe she was eyeing me strangely, today. She even gave me an A for my potion, and it was all lumpy. Hey," he sat up suddenly, "I'll get rid of the mustache, if you like. Don't just shrug -- you prefer me without it, right?"  
  
"Well, yes," Remus admitted. "But what about your Potions grade?" he asked innocently.  
  
Sirius placed one hand over his heart. "For a friend like you, Remus," he announced, "I am willing to sacrifice even my hypothetical Potions grade." He waved his wand once, and the mustache was gone. He then turned his clean-shaven face towards Remus and smiled slowly.  
  
"I don't have to sound like a cheap novel, you know," he said at last. "I could try using my own words, instead. So, would you like to hear some true cliches, as phrased by an incoherent English schoolboy?" he asked.  
  
"Well..." Remus started.  
  
"Don't worry, I won't talk about you," Sirius grinned. "Or even about my feelings, ugh. Just about general things that are generally true."  
  
"Like what?" Remus asked. "Like that the dawn light is rosy?"  
  
"Well, it is," Sirius nodded. "And it is also true that morning dewdrops sparkle like diamonds, and that the wind sometimes howls like a lost dog. But, more importantly, it is true that simple human touch can feel good," he added, touching Remus' arm. "Especially with someone you... like." He slid his arm around his friend's back, drawing them closer together.  
  
They sat there for a moment, until Remus relaxed into his friend's shoulder. "That IS true..." he admitted, at last, "but..."  
  
"But other things," Sirius interrupted quickly, "feel better yet." And he leaned in, and kissed him.  
  
Remus responded briefly, but then pulled away. "I know all that already," he said quietly, looking off into the darkness.  
  
"There are other things you don't know," Sirius promised. "I could tell you about those. Or show them to you." He leaned in again, and softly kissed Remus on the ear.  
  
Remus pulled away, again. "Even the men on cheap novel covers know about that one," he commented.  
  
"There are many more things. Hell, there are probably things even I don't know," Sirius admitted. "In fact," he added, suddenly inspired, "I hereby challenge you to find one."  
  
"Oh, do you?" Remus gave him a sidelong glance. "I don't know, Sirius. Based on what I know about you, it sounds like quite a difficult task. Or, at least, a task with some rather hard aspects," he added solemnly.  
  
"Very hard, I'd say," a poker-faced Sirius agreed. "Does that scare you? Oh, come on, Remus," he continued, leaning eagerly towards his silent friend. "What are you, chicken?"  
  
Remus grinned. "Well, if you put it that way..." he muttered, before turning towards Sirius and taking his face in his hands. They looked at each other for a moment, grins fading. And then they kissed, again.  
  
Behind them, the hedge burst into song once more.  
  
The song must have been too loud. Severus woke, immediately aware of where he was and what he had to do. Even before his eyes were fully open, he was slipping out of his bed and gathering his clothes.  
  
His impulse would not be denied. He would go forth and wage war on Fate itself; didn't that have a noble ring to it? A noble ring that only a Gryffindor could appreciate.   
  
"Snape?" Avery's sleepy voice reached him as he was pulling on his boots. "What are you doing?"  
  
Severus was about to reply quite rudely when a sudden thought seized him. "Avery," he asked, "do you know what a nightingale sounds like, when it sings? Does it sound anything like a Verdi aria?"  
  
"Huh?" Avery sounded rather confused. "I don't know... I think I dissected a nightingale once, though," he added helpfully. "It sort of shrieked. Unless maybe that was a canary, I can't really tell the difference."  
  
Severus couldn't think of a suitable reply to that, so he simply slipped through the door and headed for the gardens. He made it out without any trouble, but his luck left him there. The night-time air was quiet and cold against his ears. He heard no arias, no bird-like warblings, and definitely no shrieks.  
  
There was only one thing he could do. So, he set out out across the grounds, trying to put together a mental map of all the shrubberies of Hogwarts. There were thousands: but, even though he was on a foolish Gryffindor errand, he still had a Slytherin's will and ambition, and he was determined to visit them all.  
  
Within a couple of hours, he was trying to recall Anti-Blister Charms, and cursing his new snake skin boots. That was when he finally glimpsed a walking Gryffindor. His heart pounded with excitement; but it was only Pettigrew, walking some short Hufflepuff female back towards the castle. And, so, he was off again, walking from hedge to hedge, and occasionally leaping into them in an attempt to avoid Hagrid.  
  
The dawn, when it came, found him searching still, so muddy and leafy that he resembled a hedge himself -- although no Charm, no matter how powerful, could have forced him to burst into joyous song.  
  
He had fought Fate, and Fate had, apparently, won.  
  
At least for now.  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
Suggestion: Review! Reviews inspire me to write more. 


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